


Fallen

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d fallen from his horse yesterday, the poor beast stumbling badly and Aramis ending up beneath the animal as it landed and rolled over his right leg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinadp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinadp/gifts).



> After a brief break, I'm happy to be back with this short fic which is a birthday gift for tinadp. Happy Birthday, my friend, I hope you like it! I think this will be 6-7 chapters in total and I'll be posting daily, except for a an extra day's wait in between chapters 1 and 2 as I'm currently out of town and without access to a reliable internet connection. Hope you enjoy!

The rain fell steadily, the drops falling gently but persistently, slowly soaking everything in their path. Aramis turned his face up to the moisture, opening his mouth and allowing the water to pool until he had enough for a shallow swallow. The small amount felt wonderful against his throat which was raw from his earlier screams of pain. There had been no one around to hear him so he hadn’t made any effort to contain his sounds of agony, allowing himself the rare privilege of voicing his pain rather than stoically holding it in. A part of his mind believed that it had helped, even though he was certain that no matter how proficiently he’d sworn and how loudly he’d screamed, the torment of setting his leg was still an excruciating experience that he hoped never to repeat.

 

Normally, he would have been able to rely on the care of his brothers, the men never deployed on a mission alone, but this had been a personal journey to visit the Abbey of Clairvaux in order to renew his faith. It was something he did every few years, visiting different locations each time, but each time the purpose was the same. He loved being a Musketeer and knew without a doubt that he was meant to be a soldier, but occasionally the violence and death overwhelmed him and his ravaged soul could no longer be soothed by the caress of a woman. When that happened, he’d request leave and, smiling, shake his head at his friends who always offered to accompany him, completing his solitary pilgrimage and returning invigorated and ready to once more deal with the uglier side of soldiering.

 

He estimated that he was no more than a day’s hard ride from Paris, and he’d been looking forward to seeing his friends again, knowing that they missed him as much as he had them. His first night back, they usually splurged on a meal at one of the better taverns in the city, ending the night at Athos’ apartments where they drank and shared stories until the early hours of the morning; it was as much a part of the tradition as anything else.

 

Aramis shivered as more moisture pooled at his collar, slipping beneath the leather of his doublet to soak into his shirt. It was a relatively warm day, the rain itself initially welcome as it provided relief to the sun’s heat, but the marksman knew his body was bordering on shock from the intensity of the pain from his broken leg. His right hand reached for it unconsciously, gripping just above his knee where his makeshift splint ended. The break was lower down and had fortunately not broken through the skin; if it had, it would have been an automatic death sentence given his current circumstances, his body likely succumbing to blood loss or infection before he could be found.

 

He sighed as he wiped at his face, trying unsuccessfully to rid it of wetness and keep the water out of his eyes. He’d fallen from his horse yesterday, the poor beast stumbling badly and Aramis ending up beneath the animal as it landed and rolled over his right leg. Sadly, his mount hadn’t fared any better than he had, suffering the same injury, and Aramis had used the pistol in his belt to end its misery. When he’d managed to recover sufficiently from the pain, he’d pulled himself along the ground, eventually locating branches that could be used to immobilize his leg, and positioning himself in a small copse of trees that offered a modicum of protection.

 

The tasks had taken him hours to complete, the agony in his leg spiking with each minor movement and causing him to pass out more than once. The only consolation was that he’d managed to pull one of his saddlebags from the horse and it happened to contain what was left of his provisions. He didn’t have much of an appetite, and without a stable water source, he’d consumed only the smallest amount of food and only once the throb in his leg had eased sufficiently for his stomach to settle.

 

As the muscles of his broken leg spasmed, Aramis gasped and he held his thigh again, waiting for the extreme pain to pass and wishing once more that he’d had access to his medical supplies, clearly envisioning the herbs that were inside and which would have offered him a measure of relief. The damaged muscles around the broken bone finally relaxed and Aramis breathed deeply as he tried to recover from the increasingly frequent contractions. It was in these moments that he wished that he knew less about injuries, recognizing the fact that he was growing weaker with every passing minute, the endless agony he was experiencing sapping his strength just as surely as any bullet wound would. “Stop it,” he muttered to himself through gritted teeth, refusing to allow himself to give way to pity, understanding that a good portion of his ability to survive relied upon his mental state; as soon as he gave up, his body would follow and he could not in good conscience accept that his friends would discover him dead.

 

He tipped his face up again, closing his eyes and opening his mouth as he leaned his head against the tree at his back. He’d had nothing to drink for many hours and would have nothing available to him once the rains stopped, so he forced himself to take advantage of the moisture while it lasted. His stomach roiled uncomfortably at his next swallow and he forced himself to breathe evenly as he willed the nausea away, unwilling to be sick and leave his body even more dehydrated than before. He curled his left arm around his belly trying to soothe it until the need to be sick eventually passed. Shuddering, he opened his eyes to the gray skies above and reminded himself once more that his friends would be expecting him back that night and, when he did not arrive, they would go in search of him; he only needed to survive another day or two. 

* * *

d’Artagnan surveyed the practice yard from atop their usual table, feet perched casually on the bench as he cut himself another piece of apple and popped the juicy morsel into his mouth. It was nearing the end of the day and he was just waiting for Porthos and Athos to join him so they might decide which tavern they’d be visiting that night. The larger man was just finishing giving some last corrections to a man with whom he’d been sparring while the older man was upstairs conferring with Treville, ostensibly about an upcoming mission they’d be embarking upon once Aramis rejoined them. The marksman had been away for over a week and all three of them were looking forward to their friend’s return.

 

This had been the first time d’Artagnan had been in the men’s midst when Aramis had decided to embark on one of his journeys of renewal, and he’d been confused at first why the man insisted on travelling alone. Porthos had taken him around the shoulders and led him away, explaining it to him that night as the two of them shared dinner with Athos, the marksman having already taken his leave to pack his things in order to get an early start in the morning. It seemed that Aramis felt he was most capable of communing with God if he left all the trappings of his regular life behind him, and that included his fellow Musketeers. If the men thought it at all strange, they didn’t comment, obviously having gotten used to Aramis’ eccentricity in the matter. Neither Porthos nor Athos seemed worried about their friend making the solitary trip and d’Artagnan took his lead from them, pushing aside any misgivings he might have had.

 

Their week had passed in relative boredom, the three remaining Musketeers assigned mostly to guard duty at the palace, as well as a short journey to a nearby town to escort a minor noble to Court. It seemed that the Captain had intentionally given them easier assignments that kept them close to home, saving the more complex missions for when they were reunited with their fourth. The thought of Treville’s understanding in the matter made d’Artagnan grin, wondering if anyone else at the garrison realized that the inseparables were the commanding officer’s favorites. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had arrived, reminding himself that the Captain had always been nothing but fair in doling out assignments to the men. Still, it did seem to be an odd coincidence that the three of them had not been given anything of consequence since Aramis’ departure.

 

The Gascon’s musings were cut short by Porthos’ arrival, the man dropping onto the table next to him and snatching the half-eaten apple from his hand, taking a large bite. “Hey,” d’Artagnan protested as he reached for the pilfered fruit, but the large man took another sizeable bite before handing it back to the young man, the Gascon looking at the core that he now held in his hand in disgust. “You could have gotten your own, you now,” d’Artagnan groused as he tossed the remnants of the apple away, pointing to the basket on the table that contained more of the fruit.

 

Porthos wiped a sleeve across his mouth as he guffawed. “Not nearly as satisfying,” he replied with a gleam in his eye, “or as much fun.”

 

The Gascon tried to glare at his friend but it was impossible to be mad at the man, especially while he wore such an expression of complete joy. Changing topics, he asked, “Any idea what time Aramis will be back?”

 

Porthos’ head turned toward the garrison gates, glancing next to the sun that hung overhead, gauging the time according to its location, “Two, maybe three hours tops.”

 

They both looked toward the stairs leading from the balcony above, the sound of Athos’ boots alerting them to the fact that their friend was finished with Treville. The older Musketeer joined them at the table, remaining standing as he removed his hat to scrub a hand idly through his matted curls, the heat of the day making them damp with sweat. “We have a mission?” Porthos asked perceptively.

 

Replacing his hat on his head, Athos nodded, “We ride out mid-morning.” Porthos gave a dip of his head in approval. The Captain was familiar with their habits and knew that their evening would be spent reminiscing with Aramis, none of them finding their beds much before dawn, and the man was permitting them a later start the following day in deference to their plans.

 

“Details?” the larger man pressed, curious to know what they would be doing.

 

“Let’s wait until Aramis arrives; that way I won’t need to repeat myself,” Athos suggested, his head turning automatically to check the garrison gates before turning back again to face his friends when no one appeared.

 

“What’s the plan for tonight, then?” d’Artagnan asked, having been told of the traditional meal they would share, but little else.

 

Their conversation turned to the suitability of various taverns in the city, none of them the least bit aware yet that Aramis was in trouble and would not be joining them that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was hours past when Aramis was due to return and Porthos and Athos had both been tight-lipped about their thoughts on his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the great response to this story! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The rain had eventually tapered off to nothing and now the only moisture remaining was what dripped off the leaves on the branches above his head. The sun had set and the evening had brought cooler temperatures, not typically uncomfortable but for the fact that he was soaked and had no way of getting warm and dry. His hand flopped lazily in one of the puddles around him and he thought absently that he could use them as a water source if he became desperate enough before realizing that the water would soon disappear as it soaked back into the ground beneath him; in the meantime it meant that he was sitting on the sodden ground and it was merely one more thing that added to his misery. To distract himself, he thought back to the last time he’d left the garrison to complete his spiritual journey, before returning to the camaraderie of his two brothers; it was nearly three years ago now and they’d had no idea that their group would one day welcome another.

 

_Porthos’ raucous laughter was infectious as the man threw his head back in response to Aramis’ story, revelling in the fact that they were once more together. It was the fourth time in their acquaintance that the marksman had left them to restore his faith, an act that Athos viewed more as a way of healing the soul and regaining equilibrium than anything else; if Aramis preferred to cloak it in the guise of religion, that was fine with him. This night was the marksman’s first one back and, as was their custom, they’d given their friend time to wash away the dust from his trip before taking themselves to one of the finer taverns in town where they’d dined on succulent roast pheasant and washed their meal down with a vintage of wine that only Athos’ deep pockets could afford._

_It had been this way since Aramis’ first trip away from them, the former Comte insisting that his coin had no better purpose than to fund the celebration of three close friends being reunited. Porthos and Aramis had initially balked at his generosity, but when it became clear that Athos’ feelings would be hurt if they didn’t allow him this small token, they wholeheartedly went along with the suggestion. Since then, it was an unspoken agreement that Aramis’ first evening back would be spent in each other’s company, the men needing the time to reconnect after being apart, even if for a relatively short amount of time. All of them recognized that there would be others who would find the practice odd, especially since the trio spent so much time together in the performance of their duties, but it was just another aspect of the bond they shared and part of the reason they were called the inseparables, understanding from an early time that they complemented each other, compensating for their individual weaknesses and enhancing their strengths._

_As Porthos’ laughter died down and Aramis caught his breath, a calm settled over their table. Athos picked up the bottle of wine and topped up their glasses before raising his in a toast, looking solemnly between his two friends as he spoke, “If there is a God, I thank him for restoring our brother’s peace and for bringing him back to our sides safely.” Aramis’ eyes crinkled in mirth at the older man’s words but he raised his glass as well, touching it to each of his friends’ glasses in turn before taking a drink._

_It was at times like these that the men turned introspective, talking of things of consequence rather than the sharing of bawdy stories and Court gossip to pass the time. Porthos’ eyes clouded over and it was clear that the man was growing more sombre in his reflections, taking another sip of his wine before he asked, “What is it that you find on these trips that you cannot find in Paris?”_

_Aramis smiled patiently at the question, having heard it on each past occasion, even though it was phrased slightly differently each time. As he prepared to answer, he was surprised to see Athos looking at him in rapt attention, the older man just as curious about his answer as Porthos. Clearing his throat, Aramis replied, “Perspective.”_

_The larger man snorted at the response, a faint grin splitting his face as he offered, “Can get that from the city rooftops, you know.”_

_The marksman smiled in return, Porthos’ penchant for travelling through the Parisian streets by way of the rooftops was something that was well known to all of them. “Not that kind of perspective,” Aramis said, pausing to find the right words to explain. “It is a way of reminding myself that there is a life beyond the walls of the garrison.”_

_Athos looked at him thoughtfully as he countered, “Surely we see enough proof of that in the performance of our duties. Truly, it is not as though we are cloistered and protected from the goings on of others; in fact, I would suggest that we probably see more intrigue in a month than an average person does in their entire life.”_

_Aramis sighed and shook his head, “But don’t you see; that’s exactly the point. We see people plotting assassinations, robbing innocents, scheming to become more powerful, richer, or just satisfy their own base desires. When I leave, I’m reminded that there are people out there – normal people – who work hard to earn an honest living; they fall in love and get married, have children and die surrounded by those who love them, all without hardly a thought about the latest political manoeuvrings happening at Court.” He stopped for a moment to draw a deep, cleansing breath before adding, “It gives one hope.” He fell silent then, looking down into his glass of wine, the deep red liquid mesmerizing for some reason he couldn’t fathom._

_Porthos and Athos were quiet as well, both contemplating the marksman’s words until the former finally spoke, “Alright.” When Aramis looked up, he held up his glass, “To hope.” The marksman’s lips turned up in a smile as Athos added his glass, nodding in agreement with the toast and repeating it, “To hope.”_

_They finished the bottle they’d started and then purchased three more to bring back with them to Athos’ apartments. The tone of their evening lightened but Aramis could not help but think that his friends had understood that night in a way that they never had before, and he doubted that he would hear the same question repeated again in the future._

The wind had picked up and the branches above him shook, depositing drops of moisture on him and bringing him back to the present. He’d been looking forward to finding out whether either of the men would broach the subject again, asking why he’d travelled once more, but it seemed that fate would have him wait an extra few days before he would find out. As he shivered in the heavier breeze, he prayed that he would get the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.

* * *

It was hours past when Aramis was due to return and Porthos and Athos had both been tight-lipped about their thoughts on his absence. When it became obvious that the marksman would not be returning that night, the older man had visited Treville’s office to advise him of the fact, and had received permission for all of them to stay at the garrison the following day, the mission being reassigned by the Captain to another group of men.

 

The trio had waited for the marksman to ride through the gates and, when he hadn’t appeared, had helped themselves to some food from the kitchen, preferring to stay and eat at the garrison lest Aramis arrive some time later that night. By the time they’d finished eating, the moon was high in the sky and they were the last ones sitting in the courtyard. Unable to stay quiet any longer, d’Artagnan broke the silence as he suggested, “Perhaps he stayed an extra day at the abbey?”

 

Porthos shook his head firmly, “No, Aramis knows that we worry and he would never be late without getting word to us.”

 

The Gascon glanced at Athos and the older man dipped his head in acknowledgement, lending his support to the larger man’s statement. Unwilling to give up so easily, the young man offered an alternative explanation, “Then something else unavoidably detained him?”

 

Porthos’ lips were pressed together in a thin line, the only outward sign of his worry for the marksman and he shook his head again, denying the Gascon’s suggestion. d’Artagnan bit his lip as he accepted that these two men knew Aramis far better than he, and he needed to defer to their judgement. So decided, he asked, “How long will we wait for him to show up?”

 

Both men looked up from their cups of wine, Porthos deferring to Athos to answer, “The Captain has given us permission to remain here tomorrow.” He trailed off and took a sip of his drink before he said, “Or to take a ride into the countryside if we think our time would be used better in that fashion.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of agreement, pleased to hear that they wouldn’t have to petition Treville for permission to go in search of the marksman. The Gascon was nodding as well and repeated his earlier question, “So, how long will we wait?”

 

This time Athos glanced meaningfully in Porthos’ direction, the larger man answering easily, “Be ready to leave after morning muster. If he’s not here by then, we’ll find him somewhere on the road.”

 

None of them voiced their concerns about the marksman’s health, ignoring the possibility that their friend could be hurt rather than merely delayed, but d’Artagnan had to ask, “Should I bring medical supplies?” As the group’s medic, Aramis typically carried these types of supplies, but they’d learned through experience that it was better to have more than one set of hands available to clean and stitch wounds, and the Gascon had demonstrated a natural talent. As such, the medic had been teaching the boy and ensured that he carried a duplicate saddlebag of supplies, having proven valuable on more than one occasion when more than one of them had been hurt. Porthos looked down at the young man’s question, unable to bear the thought of his friend lying injured and helpless, and it fell to Athos to offer a short nod, knowing it was best to be prepared for any circumstance.

 

“Alright,” d’Artagnan agreed, draining his cup of wine and placing it on the table. He stood, intending to head to his room to ready his things, and bade the two men good night as he said, “See you in the morning.” Porthos waved a hand in his direction and Athos murmured a low “Good night,” before exhaling deeply and scrubbing a hand across his face.

 

Looking up at Porthos, he met his friend’s intense gaze as the larger man stated, “He’d better be alright.” Athos could only nod as he wished for the same outcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if taunting him, the animal took its time, swaying slightly as it shifted from one leg to the other, close enough now that the moonlight glinted off its silvery back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading along and has left comments and kudos. There's some more trouble ahead - I hope you enjoy!

At some point, Aramis had fallen asleep, despite the discomfort of his wet and chilly disposition and the continual ache that consumed his lower leg. When awareness began to creep into his mind, it took him several moments to remember where he was and what had happened. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, his brain slowly catching up and recognizing that it was nighttime, the area illuminated by a half moon above, chasing away a small portion of the darkness around him. His leg was throbbing dully and he reached a hand down to his knee, wondering if it was the pain that had woken him. As he squeezed his eyes closed against another muscle spasm from his broken leg, he heard a faint rustling that had him stilling. Opening his eyes, he looked through the gloom, trying his best to discern the features of his surroundings. He sat there for nearly a minute, ears attuned to every minor sound, but there was nothing more and, with a sigh of relief, he collapsed back against the tree behind him. Moments later, his body tensed again, the sound of low growling unmistakable in the relative silence.

 

It took his mind a second to process the implication of the quiet around him, which suggested that a predator was nearby, stilling all other nocturnal activity as the other animals ran away or hid from the danger; all, that is, but him. Aramis suddenly found his mouth desert dry and he knew without a doubt that the condition was due to more than the small amount of water he’d consumed. His heart was pounding with the sudden rush of adrenaline, sharpening his senses and preparing his limbs for the classic fight or flight, except that the decision was out of his hands – incapacitated as he was, his only choice was to fight. The fingers of his right hand scrabbled to find the hilt of his sword, having removed it from his belt earlier to lay on the ground beside him, offering a small measure of comfort. Now, he could not grasp it quickly enough.

 

The growling he’d heard grew louder and he saw the bright glow of eyes cast in his direction. He watched with his hand on his blade, drawing strength from the feel of its cold solidity in his palm, ignoring the minor tremble in the limb which might be due to the cold, fear, or a combination of both. His tongue darted out to lick at dry and cracked lips as his breathing increased, murmuring to himself as he waited, “Come on.” The seconds ticked by at a crawl, each infinitesimal measure seemingly lasting forever as the tension in his body intensified, making him gasp at the ratcheting throb in his leg. The shadow he’d seen was moving closer, the animal’s eyes heralding its approach and Aramis could finally make out its shape, swallowing roughly against an achingly dry throat.

 

The beast was enormous, much larger than any he’d ever seen in the past and it seemed to be enjoying the agony it was putting its prey through as it took its time, pausing to sniff the air even as dark lips were pulled back to reveal a row of razor sharp teeth. The marksman found his breath catching in his throat as he tightened his grip on his sword, cursing the fact that his extra powder and shot had been lost with his horse and his pistol now lay empty and useless. Sweat was now beading at his brow, the autonomic reaction overcoming his dehydrated and chilled state, but Aramis wasn’t even aware of the fact, his entire being focused only on the threat that approached.

 

“Come on,” he whispered again, tormented by the fact that he’d had to put his horse to death and that he’d been unable to move far away from the poor beast to be safe. Some part of him had known that this would happen, his horse’s blood acting as a beacon for scavengers eager for an easy meal. Normally, he would have buried the poor beast, preventing the smell from permeating the air and calling others to the site. Now, he could only brace himself for what would surely be a brutal fight for his life.

 

“Come on, come on,” the words fell from his lips without awareness, the strain of waiting for the attack almost worse than the actual event when his training and instincts would take over to hopefully make him victorious over his opponent. As if taunting him, the animal took its time, swaying slightly as it shifted from one leg to the other, close enough now that the moonlight glinted off its silvery back. Another low growl was all the warning Aramis had before the beast gathered itself and sprang forward, its powerful leg muscles closing the distance between them in moments. He threw his left arm up, barely managing to protect his neck, not having had time to bring his sword into the proper position to defend himself. The animal’s teeth sank deeply into his forearm, piercing through leather and flesh with ease.

 

Aramis allowed a grunt of surprise to escape his throat, the pain sufficiently numbed by adrenaline, and he took advantage of the fact, knowing that he would soon be overwhelmed by the injury and unable to fight. He brought his right hand up, striking against the beast’s head with the hilt of his sword, repeating the motion several times until the animal finally released its prize and Aramis was able to pull his arm free. The victory was short-lived as the monster planted its front legs on the marksman’s chest, this time aiming its jaws at his throat. Without conscious thought, Aramis flipped the hold on his sword, gripping the hilt so he could drive the blade of the weapon sideways and into the body of the animal that pinned him in place.

 

With a howl of rage, the beast fell to the side, staggering a few feet away and looking back on its prey warily. Aramis was panting heavily, the battle having nearly drained all of his remaining reserves, his broken leg and ravaged arm now protesting loudly at the abuse they’d suffered. Gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes on his attacker, the marksman forced his left arm to move, reaching behind his back to grasp the dagger that sat there. As if anticipating a last desperate move, the beast growled once more, preparing to pounce, even as Aramis compelled his numb fingers to close around the handle of his knife.

 

When recalling the story, the marksman would explain how time seemed to have slowed to a standstill, and how he remembered the glint of the dagger’s blade under the moonlight as he threw it. He would describe how the wolf had just begun its leap and the smell of its fetid breath, which seemed to reach across the distance between them. The picture he would paint would tell of the sound that the knife made as it embedded itself deeply into the animal’s eye, the blade long enough to pierce the beast’s brain and kill it instantly, and of the thud that echoed when its heavy body fell lifeless to the ground. Lastly, he would tell of his relief at still being alive and how he remembers little of binding his wound to stem the bleeding or of passing out shortly afterwards, his body overcome by the dual shocks of blood loss and incredible pain, as he prays that the wolf was a solitary predator that night and that his friends would reach him before the animal’s pack. 

* * *

d’Artagnan’s sleep had been poor, in spite of the fact that he’d been the first one to head to his room. His thoughts had been filled with possible reasons for the marksman’s absence and he’d fussed endlessly with the bandages, herbs and other supplies he carried, double and triple-checking everything in the fear that they’d be insufficient. In truth, it was himself he doubted more than the items he’d packed, his training with Aramis having given him a rudimentary understanding of the most common wounds that soldiers received, but his practice of the man’s teachings always conducted under the medic’s observant guidance. Now, he might find himself alone, tending wounds that he had no experience with and doing so without Aramis’ patient tutelage.

 

He’d seen the look of hope in Athos’ eyes when the man had replied to his question about the medical supplies and he had no doubt that both Porthos and the older man would rely on him to care for any injuries Aramis had sustained. The idea of being wholly responsible for his friend’s life was terrifying, only made worse when he considered the consequences of failing; he would not be able to live with himself if the marksman died because of his ineptitude. As a result, he’d consulted all of the notes he’d taken when observing at Aramis’ side, even leaving his room around 2am to visit the medic’s in order to borrow one of the man’s medical books, pouring over it until the first rays of dawn.

 

When morning arrived, it brought a renewed sense of panic as the Gascon realized he was out of time. Drawing a deep breath to clear his head, he allowed the book in his hands to fall closed, placing it on the small table next to him and then closing his eyes for several seconds as he prepared to face the day. Determinedly he rose and poured a small amount of water into the basin, wetting his hands and then his face in an effort to quiet the sting of his red and tired eyes before going out to meet his friends.

 

As he dried his face, he looked longingly at his bed, recognizing his need for sleep but resigning himself to the fact that his nighttime hours had been better spent preparing himself to deal with whatever might await them when they found Aramis. Both Porthos and Athos had seemed confident in their beliefs that whatever had delayed the marksman would be outside of his control, and that thought had made the Gascon’s chest tighten with fear for his friend, and only the act of preparing himself in any way that he could had helped to ease the feeling in the slightest.

 

He took a last look through his medical bag, confirming what he already knew but needing the comfort offered by going through the familiar motions. When he’d finished, he slipped into his doublet and boots, fastening his weapons around his waist before snagging the bag and throwing it over one shoulder. With an energy that he’d didn’t feel, he strode from the room, moving quickly along the walkway that led to the stairs and descending to the courtyard below. Athos and Porthos were already waiting at their usual table, both men looking just as sombre as he felt. With a quick nod of greeting, he waited for one of them to speak and Athos gave a short shake of his head instead to indicate that there was still no sign of their missing friend.

 

Forcing his taut muscles to relax, d’Artagnan sat on the bench across from Porthos, Athos standing at one end with his eyes firmly glued to the garrison gates. Although he had no appetite, he reached for a small crust of bread and ripped off a piece, chewing slowly before swallowing with difficulty. Porthos’ head was bowed as he leaned both arms on the table, a forgotten portion of food in front of him. As if sensing the Gascon’s gaze, the larger man looked up, providing the boy with a proper look at the man’s tired features which reflected his own.

 

Deciding it would be hypocritical to ask if Porthos had gotten any sleep, he said instead, “You should try to eat.” Putting his words to action, he took another bite of his own food before continuing, “We’ll need to keep up our strength and we may not have much time for our own needs later.” Porthos stared at him for several seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not to argue before giving a dip of his head and taking a bite. Glancing at Athos, d’Artagnan was surprised to see the man looking back at him, giving a slow nod of approval. Pleased that he’d been able to help but not wanting to draw attention to the fact, he dipped his head in reply and then turned his attention back to his breakfast.

 

Minutes later, the activity around them increased as the Musketeers gathered for morning muster. Athos had once more turned his attention to the gate, but the entrance remained stubbornly empty. Above them, the sound of boots was heard as Treville exited his office. The Captain’s appearance seemed to prompt Athos into action and d’Artagnan watched as the older man’s gaze moved upwards, the two older men exchanging some form of silent communication. Moments later, Athos’ head snapped back towards them and d’Artagnan realized that both he and Porthos were now watching the older man expectantly. “The horses are saddled and waiting; it’s time for us to go.”

 

Athos moved away quickly, Porthos standing and following immediately and leaving the Gascon to stumble as he took a moment to rise and gather his things. A backward glance showed the Captain watching them and left d’Artagnan wondering if he’d been correct about the brief flash of concern he’d seen pass over the man’s face. Pushing the thought aside for later, he faced forward and sped up his steps in order to close the distance between himself and his friends. After all, Aramis was waiting for them and the young man was determined not to let any of them down.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tears pooled in his eyes as the moments passed and he glanced back at his two travelling companions, unable to speak, grief etched in every feature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to this story and our poor Musketeers' plight. Hope you enjoy this next part.

The sound of a low moan reached his ears and he rolled his head to one side, attempting to escape the noise. Instead of muting what he’d heard earlier, the sound was repeated as the movement of his head awoke the throbbing of his body. This time, he felt the groan resonate in his chest, realizing belatedly that it had come from him and he struggled to understand what was happening. With a great deal of effort, he prised open sticky lids to cast his eyes on an early dawn, the morning sky just beginning to pink with the sun’s rays while his position in the trees was still shadowed and cold. At the realization, he shivered and then gasped, the tremor of his muscles sending twin spikes of agony through his damaged leg and arm.

 

Aramis shut his eyes tightly against the pain, breathing heavily as tears pooled beneath his closed lids. His nerve endings felt like they were on fire and for a moment, he found himself wishing for the oblivion of unconsciousness until he remembered the death of the creature who’d attacked him. His heartbeat sped up at the memory and his eyes snapped open, looking searchingly for the beast’s carcass. He recalled clearly where the animal had fallen, the wolf larger than any he’d ever seen, and he was astonished once more that he’d managed to defeat it. But the spot where the beast had fallen was empty, the ground stained dark with the blood that had spilled from the monster’s body.

 

Narrowing his eyes, Aramis worked to keep his panic at bay, wondering immediately if the wolf was still somehow alive. The thought remained for several long seconds until his eyes spied the evidence of drag marks, the dead beast having become carrion for some other predator looking for an easy meal. The relief he felt made him light-headed as he dropped back against the tree that had become his home for the past two days. Letting his eyes close again, he relished in the feeling of being alive and sent a prayer of thanks to whatever guardian angel had protected him, not once, but twice.

 

A minute later, he realized that the feeling of fuzziness he was experiencing wasn’t abating and he opened his eyes as he tried to understand why he felt so strange. He made to raise a hand to his head, falling into the familiar habit of tugging at his curls, when he was painfully reminded of his injured left arm. Aborting the action, he allowed the limb to fall to his lap and squinted down at it, shocked to see the poor bandaging job he’d managed with a strip of his shirt, and even more surprised at the amount of red that covered it; clearly, he’d found the cause of his discomfort.

 

Taking a steadying breath, he murmured hoarsely, “Need to get that properly bandaged before I lose any more blood.” His body chose that moment to shiver again and he distantly catalogued his symptoms, noting that he was beginning to succumb to shock. The task of unwrapping and cleaning his arm was an ordeal that had him nearly biting through his lower lip as he grunted, sweated and panted from the exertion of touching the raw wounds. He lacked water to flush out the multiple bite marks so he resorted to using the bandage to scrub at the puncture marks, encouraging them to bleed more freely and hopefully carry away some of the dirt that was inside them. The skin around the wounds was already red and swollen and Aramis winced as he realized that he’d soon be battling a fever along with dehydration and exposure.

 

Allowing himself a moment of self-pity, he dropped his head back against the solidity of the tree behind him as a quietly muttered curse left his lips. He clenched his right hand into a fist to ease the tremor he felt there, momentarily overcome by the enormity of his situation. He was hurt, alone, without any proper supplies and growing weaker with each second that passed. A part of him had prayed that his friends would somehow sense that something was wrong, riding out to save him before his circumstances turned dire, but the hoped for rescue had yet to arrive and Aramis was for the first time beginning to have doubts that he could last long enough to be saved.

 

Letting his head roll to one side, his eyes stared unseeingly at his surroundings. When he’d left the abbey, he’d been so at peace, the time he’d spent there restoring his faith in mankind and rejuvenating his spirit. As he’d ridden toward Paris, his only thoughts had been of his friends and he’d been eager to return to their company and hear what had transpired during his short absence. Even though he needed to complete these journeys in solitude, it did not mean that he didn’t miss his brothers; the truth was exactly the opposite. When in prayer, his thoughts often strayed to his friends and he asked for God’s intervention in not only his life but in theirs, asking Him to keep all that he treasured safe.

 

Now, lying injured and alone, Aramis wondered if God had a different plan for him, one that ended with his brothers finding his cold body among the trees, the ground dappled by sunlight as it shone through the leaves that hung heavily from the branches above him. He could see in his mind’s eye the strength of Porthos’ grief, the large man scooping him up in his arms and holding him close against his broad chest one last time. The large man was expressive in his emotions and no one ever needed to wonder how he felt. When he was joyful, his booming laughter seemed to fill up the room; when he was angry, the force of his fury was like the most intense thunderstorm; when he was sorrowful, his sadness swept out in waves, engulfing everything around him in darkness.

 

d’Artagnan was young and brash and his every emotion was exaggerated and untempered, not yet having learned the arts of restraint and self-discipline. His sorrow would explode from him like the ocean crashing against the cliffs, and in their own heartache, the other two would be unable to help him. As much as he loved Porthos and d’Artagnan, wanting to do anything that would spare them pain, he was most concerned for Athos. The older man would be strong and stoic, not allowing himself to mourn, and his was the saddest of all for he would blame himself and drown in wine until he, too, had been claimed by death.

 

His death, Aramis concluded, would bring about the end of the threesome, just as any of their party would; it was a sobering thought, knowing that the loss of any of them would destroy them all. The realization made Aramis’ breath hitch, his fisted hand uncurling to lay trembling against his chest, the feeling of his heart pounding reminding him again of his weakened state. He would not give up. Although it might be God’s plan for him to die here, he would not go easily, fighting for every minute to give his friends a chance to find him. Rewrapping his arm in a fresh strip of cloth, he had no idea if his efforts would be enough, but even if they weren’t, he could face his maker knowing he’d done everything in his power to delay the inevitable and, maybe, his friends would know it too. 

* * *

d’Artagnan followed behind Athos, Porthos having fallen in at their backs, the older Musketeer seeming to know exactly which road to follow and the Gascon was too caught up in his own ruminations to question him. In truth, he was barely aware of the path they followed and would be hard pressed to retrace his steps if the need arose. His every thought was consumed with what they might find and, even though Athos and Porthos watched their surroundings diligently for any sign of their missing friend, d’Artagnan was in too much of a stupor to help them.

 

Athos had been a pillar of strength so far, which was exactly what the Gascon had both expected and feared. The combination was a double-edged sword that encouraged men to follow Athos into battle fearlessly but which placed a heavy burden of responsibility on the older man’s shoulders, bowing him nearly in half until he broke. In those instances, Athos could not be placated by any of his brothers, needing to endure physical pain or the heavy fog of drunkenness until he’d either atoned for his imagined sins or buried them so deeply with wine that the memories stopped haunting his every waking hour. Neither option was acceptable to his three closest friends, but they would spar with him until he fell from exhaustion or carry him home when he could no longer stand on his feet, staying close to his side so he didn’t choke on his own vomit when he was too far gone to even roll over while getting sick. Regardless of how things turned out this time, they would need to keep a close eye on the older man.

 

Porthos was far easier to read, his anxiety over the missing marksman telegraphed in every weary sway of his body. Although he was bone-tired from worry and a lack of proper sleep, his shoulders were stiff as his body rocked in time with the horse beneath him. d’Artagnan knew that the larger man would not rest until they’d found Aramis, driving himself to exhaustion and beyond in an effort to locate the missing man. His appetite was already beginning to desert him as he focused single-mindedly on the variety of reasons for Aramis’ absence and the Gascon and Athos would need to encourage him to rest and eat, if only so that his body retained enough strength to continue searching. The larger man had intentionally positioned himself at the back of their group, his typically outgoing nature fleeing as he turned inwards with despair that he could not share with the others.

 

What must his friends be thinking of him, d’Artagnan wondered; or was it possible that they were simply too consumed with their concerns that his own behaviour had gone unnoticed. He’d been surprised and relieved when Athos had stayed quiet after seeing the redness of his eyes, surrounded by deep purple bruising that spoke of a sleepless night. Normally, Porthos would be encouraging him to eat more, yet he’d said nothing about the meagre crust of bread he’d consumed, barely glancing in the Gascon’s direction the entire time they’d sat at the table.

 

He felt that he knew these men well and often found himself chagrined at the things they noticed about him. Aramis’ way of understanding when he needed the comfort of his friend, enhanced by the small physical touches that passed between them in the brush of their shoulders or the nudge of a knee. Porthos seemed to tailor his stories to the Gascon’s moods, sharing his own failures when a lesson needed to be demonstrated, or more humorous tales when the young man’s spirits needed to be lifted. For Athos’ part, he offered an unwavering presence that steadied him when he was off-balance, reeling from a memory that reminded him of his father’s death or when he’d been reprimanded for making a mistake. Athos offered resolute support, regardless of the situation, not coddling the boy but also not allowing him to flounder, and he did so with the greatest of ease, seeming to naturally fall into the role of older brother. d’Artagnan was grateful for the ways in which his brothers supported him while at the same time he was embarrassed by their attentions.

 

As he’d been lost in his thoughts, Athos had quickened their pace, d’Artagnan adjusting automatically as his years of riding allowed him to effortlessly keep up. Glancing upwards, he noted that they’d been riding for most of the day and it was approaching early evening, leaving them only a couple of hours in which to find the marksman. The idea of not knowing Aramis’ fate for another night rankled him and he unconsciously nudged his horse to a faster pace, pulling up beside Athos who looked over at him questioningly. The Gascon saw the same look of determination on the older man’s that he knew was reflected on his own and he gave the man a nod of understanding as he continued to ride at his side. Shortly, Porthos had joined them and d'Artagnan somehow knew that things had become more right than they had been before, the three of them riding abreast of each other as they searched for any signs of their missing friend.

 

Porthos let out a low whistle as he moved his horse to one side, and Athos and d’Artagnan immediately followed in his wake. Moments later they pulled to a stop beside him as they looked down at the object of his attention. The remains were hardly recognizable but the saddle was unmistakably Aramis’, the silver adornments along the side something the marksman had added himself after purchasing it several years earlier. Athos and Porthos had teased him about it at the time, but right now they were grateful that the man had chosen such a distinctive way of identifying his tack.

 

d’Artagnan was stunned at the half-devoured remains of the fine horse. The only things left mostly untouched were the legs and the head, and the latter was missing both eyes, likely having been pecked out by birds. The carcass smelled as well and it was obvious that it had been there for at least a couple days, the sun hurrying the effects of decay on the exposed flesh. Swallowing thickly as he looked away, the Gascon met the faces of his two friends instead as he asked, “Where’s Aramis?”

 

Porthos and Athos were scanning the area and it was the latter man who pointed in the direction of the trees, moving his horse into motion right away as he led their trio there. They didn’t have to go far before they spotted their friend’s body, the head lolling loosely where it rested against a tree, both hands lying in his lap. The marksman’s legs were splayed out in front of him and he was completely motionless, not reacting in any way to the sound of their approach. “Merde!” Porthos cried as he swept down from his horse, his feet already in motion as they touched the ground, rushing to cross the space between them. He fell to his knees next to their friend, staring at the man’s body for several long seconds. Reaching out a trembling hand, he placed it on Aramis’ neck, frantic to feel the reassuring beat of the marksman’s heart. Tears pooled in his eyes as the moments passed and he glanced back at his two travelling companions, unable to speak, grief etched in every feature.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stayed that way for a long time, none of them speaking as they protectively watched over the sleeping man, each considering how close they’d come to losing one of their brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter. Hopefully I haven't caused anyone to go over the edge or resort to Athos' favorite coping mechanism.

The time it took for Porthos to locate the marksman’s pulse seemed to go on forever and, although he was aware that the other two men were waiting for word, he couldn’t bring himself to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat and threatened to choke him. The beat beneath his fingertips was faint but it heralded Aramis’ life, the man still fighting rather than taking the easy way out and letting go.

 

The large man was overcome with relief and moisture pooled in his eyes as he turned to Athos and d’Artagnan to share the news. He stared at them for several long moments until it dawned on him that the expressions on the men’s faces spoke of grief rather than joy, and he realized that he’d not yet given them any reason for relief. Swallowing thickly, he managed to push out two words, “He’s alive.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded low and broken but it was apparently enough for the others to hear and they stepped forward quickly to join him at Aramis’ side.

 

Crouching down, Athos placed a careful hand on the marksman’s cheek, surprised at the warm skin beneath his fingers. His eyes moved next to the bloodied arm and splinted leg as his mind catalogued their friend’s injuries. “d’Artagnan, bring your supplies.” The Gascon gave a short nod before moving away, Athos’ gaze shifting to Porthos who’d gripped Aramis’ right hand as though it was the last thing tethering the marksman to life. The older man understood that while they all loved Aramis, Porthos would be especially devastated by his loss, the marksman having been the first man to extend an offer of friendship when the larger man had joined the regiment, making the garrison more than just a place where he trained and laid his head, effectively turning it into his home instead.

 

d’Artagnan had returned, standing anxiously at Aramis’ feet as he looked between his two worried friends, trying to decide which side to approach from. Athos made the decision for him, rising to stand and allowing the Gascon to take his place, knowing fully that Porthos would not be moved from the marksman’s side. The young man placed his bag on the ground beside him as he kneeled, eyes already doing a cursory examination, noting the paleness of Aramis’ features, the laxness of his body, the bloody bandage that encircled his left arm and the sticks that splinted his lower leg.

 

Taking a deep steadying breath, d’Artagnan thought back to the medic’s teachings, hand moving forward to touch Aramis’ forehead and then grip his wrist in order to count the beats of his heart. He was unhappy with the results from both and bit his lip as he realized just how precarious the man’s condition appeared to be. Forcing himself to push all emotions away, he looked between Aramis’ leg and his arm, shutting his eyes briefly as he realized he had almost no knowledge of broken bones. As if reading his thoughts, Athos spoke, “Aramis would have done his best to set the bones before splinting his leg. I’ll check it while you tend to his arm.”

 

Nodding gratefully, the Gascon slipped his knife underneath the stained bandages revealing the gruesome bite marks and swollen skin. His stomach jumped at the sight and the smell of infection and he pushed aside his own discomfort as he pulled his water skin and a bottle of brandy close. He would need help with the arm and as loathe as he was to disturb his friend, Porthos might do better if actively participating in the injured man’s care. “Porthos,” d’Artagnan spoke softly, the quietness not hiding any of the urgency. “I need you to hold his arm for me while I clean it.”

 

The large man looked at him numbly, seconds passing before he gave a shaky dip of his head, releasing his hold on Aramis’ right hand to replace it with the man’s left arm. “Like this,” d’Artagnan instructed, positioning the marksman’s limb out and away from his body, and turned so that he’d have free access to the wounds. With clean bandages and nearly all of the strong spirits, the Gascon scrubbed at the puncture wounds until no trace of dirt or other debris remained. Next, he washed the entire arm with water, dabbing it dry before leaning back to sit on his heels.

 

Porthos saw the look of concern on the young man’s face and asked, “Will you sew them closed?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, hearing Aramis’ advice regarding animal bites in his head, “No, better to leave them open so the infection can drain. I’ll make up a poultice to draw it out and we’ll bandage it afterwards.” The large man gave a trusting nod, the action sending a spike of fear through the Gascon’s belly as he realized once more the responsibility that currently rested on his shoulders. If Aramis died…

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Athos’ warm hand on his shoulder, the fingers squeezing tightly before letting go, “Just do your best, d’Artagnan. It is all that any of us can ask.”

 

Releasing a shaky breath, the Gascon nodded and returned to his work, diligently crushing the herbs he needed and adding a portion of water until he’d made a thick paste. When he’d finished wrapping the marksman’s arm in both poultice and clean linen, Athos gave him a nod of encouragement, “Aramis would approve.” Doing his best to believe the man’s words, d’Artagnan ducked his head in reply. Standing, the older man stated, “We’ll need to make camp here tonight.”

 

The words broke Porthos from his thoughts, the large man once more holding the marksman’s hand in both of his. “But Aramis,” he began, trailing off as his eyes wavered on their unconscious friend’s form. “We’ve got to get ‘im back.”

 

Athos’ face softened as he replied, "We will, Porthos, but we can’t travel with him through the dark. We’ll make camp here and then leave at first light.” The larger man looked ready to argue but he only nodded wearily, turning his attention back to Aramis’ lax face. “d’Artagnan, you tend to the horses while I start a fire and then we’ll make something to eat. Afterwards, I think it would be prudent for us to take care of the remains.” The Gascon’s face blanched as he processed the meaning of his friend’s words but he moved to do as he’d been asked.

 

d’Artagnan had dealt with their mounts quickly and efficiently, practiced hands moving through the motions of removing their tack, feeding and watering them, before leaving them tied at the outskirts of their makeshift camp. By the time he’d returned, Athos had a decent fire going and Porthos had laid Aramis out in his back, removing the marksman’s still damp doublet, shirt and boots, bundling him tightly in blankets. He could see the outline of Aramis’ splinted leg underneath the thick woolen fabric and bit his bottom lip, wishing there was more he could do about the broken limb. “It’s as good as can be expected,” Athos remarked, catching the young man’s gaze. “His foot is warm and the bone is set. All we can do now is to keep him from jostling it and manage his pain.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a nod of understanding, the medic in him reasserting itself. Picking up the water skin and handing it to Athos, he asked, “Can you boil a pot of water for me? I’ll make up a draught for when he wakes.” _When he wakes._ The words echoed in his skull and caused him to worry his lip yet again, the marksman’s continued unconsciousness troubling him greatly. Hesitating but needing to know, he questioned, “Has he opened his eyes at all?” The expressions on his friends’ faces gave him confirmation of what he already knew and caused his concern to flare again, making his head throb. Absently rubbing his temple, the Gascon crouched down and snagged his supplies, gathering the herbs he’d need to manage the marksman’s pain.

 

When he’d finished and the bitter tea had steeped and cooled, the young man brought it to Aramis’ side, motioning to Porthos who still sat in his silent vigil over the insensate man. “Let’s see if we can wake him enough to get him to drink.” The large man shifted his hold, cupping the marksman’s head in one hand and lifting it gently upwards as d’Artagnan patted their friend’s face. “Aramis, I need you to wake up. I know you’re hurting and I have something that will help.” Seeing no signs of waking, the young man moved a hand to pinch the marksman’s earlobe, apologizing silently for the discomfort he was causing.

 

The injured man let out the barest hint of a moan, clearly unhappy at being roused. “Aramis, please, you have Porthos worried. I need you to open your eyes.” None of them remarked on the Gascon’s pleading tone or the fact that the large man didn’t counter the young man’s comment; they were all far too worried to pretend otherwise.

 

Aramis’ lids fluttered as he drew a slightly deeper breath, the inhale catching in his throat and causing him to expel a weak cough. The motion jarred his fragile body and reawakened the agony in his leg, pulling another, louder groan of protest from him. “Breathe, Aramis,” Porthos’ deep voice coaxed gently, one hand on his friend’s chest to ground him. With effort, the marksman slowed his breathing from the near panting pace he’d achieved and, with it, the agony in his leg eased, allowing him to regain some of his senses and push his eyes open once more.

 

“P’thos?” the injured man questioned, uncertain of the blurry image that hovered over him.

 

Porthos’ face split into a broad grin at being recognized, squeezing the nape of his friend’s neck as he replied, “It’s me, Aramis. We’re all here,” he went on, lifting his head for a moment to glance at the others. “How are you feelin’?”

 

Aramis’ face screwed up with pain as his leg muscles spasmed again, struggling to even out his breathing as he said, “Hurts.”

 

Porthos’ expression darkened with the knowledge that the marksman was hurting so badly and he motioned to d’Artagnan with his head. Taking his cue from the larger man, the Gascon brought the cup forward to Aramis’ lips, “Here, this will help.”

 

The smell of the brew had the marksman scrunching his nose in disdain as he tried to pull away. Porthos held his head firmly as he softly scolded, “There’ll be none of that now, Aramis. You know this’ll help.”

 

Aramis’ eyes rolled upwards as he tried to focus on his friend’s face, “Tastes bad.” Porthos couldn’t help the snort that escaped him as he nodded, “Yeah, it does, but that never stops you from pourin’ it down our gullets when it’s needed. Now, be a good patient and drink.”

 

The marksman glared sullenly at the larger man for a moment before obediently parting his lips, d’Artagnan tipping the liquid in immediately, pausing every few moments for Aramis to swallow, until the cup had been emptied. “Well done, Aramis,” the Gascon whispered, giving him a brief squeeze on the shoulder as Porthos laid the injured man’s head back down on the blanket that had been placed there.

 

The marksman’s eyes were already beginning to droop with the effort of drinking but he fought to keep them open as he asked, “How?”

 

It was Athos who answered this time, looking down at his friend from where he stood at the man’s feet, “Was there ever any doubt that we would find you?”

 

Aramis was silent for a few seconds before he slowly shook his head, “Not sure I’d be alive.” With those words, his lids slid closed, leaving the three Musketeers to consider the gravity of what he’d said. The marksman had been certain he’d be found, but his situation had been grave enough that he’d believed his friends might arrive too late.

 

Porthos shook his head sadly, once more gripping Aramis’ hand tightly, d’Artagnan on the other side with his hand resting on the marksman’s chest while Athos crouched down to hold the injured man’s ankle. “I’m sorry we almost failed you ‘mis.” They stayed that way for a long time, none of them speaking as they protectively watched over the sleeping man, each considering how close they’d come to losing one of their brothers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawing a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and shuddered as he prayed for his waking nightmare to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to read, comment and leave kudos on this story. More trouble ahead for our boys - enjoy!

The sun was setting by the time that Athos had pushed to his feet, pulling the Gascon up with him as the two left Aramis in Porthos’ care while they dealt with the remains of the marksman’s horse. Although the Gascon was far less experienced at soldiering, he knew well from his years on the farm that dead animals needed to be disposed of to ward off threats of animal attacks and disease. It was apparent from Aramis’ wounds that the first had already transpired but the men would do everything in their power to prevent another occurrence.

 

By the time they were done, both men had doffed their doublets and were sweating with exertion, welcoming the cooler night air as it danced across their skin to wick the moisture away. The task of burying the horse’s remains had been a gruesome one and d’Artagnan’s stomach rolled uncomfortably as he followed Athos back to their camp, carrying Aramis’ recovered saddlebag and bridle, while Athos held the remaining tack. As Porthos and Aramis came into sight, the Gascon forgot his own discomfort as he sped up his stride, passing by Athos whose lips turned up slightly at the young man’s need to check on his patient; it was obvious that Aramis had made a good choice when deciding to tutor the boy.

 

Porthos had shifted positions somewhat, now sitting down with his back against a tree, the marksman’s head and shoulders cradled carefully in his lap, one hand wrapped around Aramis’ right hand. For a moment, teasing words rose to d’Artagnan’s lips at the sight before he was reminded of the marksman’s precarious situation as he took in Aramis’ flushed skin and laboured breaths. Dropping the items he held to one side, he knelt beside the injured man, touching a hand to the marksman’s forehead and confirming that his fever still burned hotly. Methodically, he began to unwind the wrappings from Aramis’ arm, revealing puffy and discolored skin that was warm to the touch.

 

Prodding at it gently, d’Artagnan was pleased to see little discharge from the puncture wounds, suggesting that the poultice was at least working, if not as quickly as they might like. Aramis moaned softly at the Gascon’s attentions but a few murmured words from Porthos had him stilling again, the larger man already guessing at d’Artagnan’s intentions. “You’ll clean it again?”

 

The Gascon nodded as he placed the unbandaged arm gently on the injured man’s chest. “With hot water and then another poultice. Afterwards, we should try and get him to drink again. The fever will leave him parched.”

 

Porthos sat, stroking Aramis’ brow while d’Artagnan prepared what he needed, Athos providing what assistance he could but largely leaving things in the young man’s hands. When he was ready, the Gascon met the larger man’s gaze with a determined one of his own. “Hold him tightly; this will hurt.”

 

At Porthos’ nod, d’Artagnan pulled Aramis’ arm away from his body and covered it with a cloth soaked in hot water. The marksman jerked as the sensation registered and the larger man bent over him to whisper words of comfort. As the Gascon’s ministrations continued, Aramis’ sounds of pain grew more pronounced until Porthos looked up and ordered, “Stop. Let him get his bearings and then you can finish.”

 

d’Artagnan looked at his patient, only marginally surprised to see the man’s eyes open if not completely focused. Aramis was blinking heavily and it was obvious that he was struggling against the throb of his arm. After a minute, he rolled his head toward the Gascon, eyes drifting to his aching arm. “How’s it look?” he breathed out.

 

d’Artagnan forced an encouraging smile onto his face as he replied, “Better. The bites are infected but I think the poultice is working. I need to clean them again before I bind it.” The Gascon waited to hear some words of guidance from his teacher but the marksman just looked away, seemingly satisfied that he was being well cared for.

 

The young man hesitated then, uncertain about whether or not to continue until Porthos leaned closer to the marksman, “You alright for d’Artagnan to finish now?” Aramis gave an uncoordinated nod, his eyes slipping closed in exhaustion. Porthos glanced knowingly at the Gascon and d’Artagnan returned to his task, ignoring the occasional soft whimpers that emerged from their injured friend.

 

When he'd finished, he swiped a sleeve across his brow, removing the moisture that had formed there while he’d been tending to Aramis’ arm. Catching Porthos’ eye he asked, “Can you keep him awake a while longer?”

 

The large man nodded, “Pass me a damp cloth for his face.” Before d’Artagnan could move, Athos was handing Porthos the requested item and the large man dragged it across the marksman’s forehead and cheeks.

 

With a smile of thanks to his mentor, the Gascon made up another batch of tea and, while it steeped, mixed and crushed the herbs he needed for a fresh poultice. He bandaged Aramis’ arm by the light of their campfire, the sun having set and leaving the area around them in darkness. Replacing the marksman’s arm on his chest when he’d finished, d’Artagnan scooted up to his friend’s head, the dreaded draught held in one hand. “Aramis, I know you’re tired and in pain, but I need you to drink more of this tea.”

 

The marksman’s eyes fluttered open and he peered fuzzily at the young man, forcing a faint smile to his face, “Taught you too well.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned as he replied, bringing the cup to his friend’s lips, “I’m just a very good student. Now, drink up.”

 

With Porthos continuing to hold their injured friend up, Aramis managed to finish the drink, eyes slipping closed as soon as he was done. The Gascon placed the cup on the ground beside him, pulling the blanket higher to cover the injured man’s shoulders before placing a hand on his friend’s brow, frowning at the continued heat he felt there. Rocking back onto his heels, d’Artagnan sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face in frustration. The marksman’s condition was still poor and he worried that his skills would not be sufficient to keep the man alive long enough to return to Paris.

 

“It’s alright, whelp,” Porthos interrupted his thoughts, accurately reading the young man’s expression. “You’re doin’ good and Aramis is a fighter; he’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

 

d’Artagnan wished he could feel as confident as the larger man, but a plethora of what ifs swirled through his brain without end. What if the fever got worse? What if there were complications from the broken leg? What if they’d arrived too late and Aramis was too weak to recover? Seeing the look of hope on Porthos’ face, the Gascon gave a shaky nod in reply, unwilling to dampen his friend’s spirits by sharing his melancholy thoughts.

 

Standing, he repacked his medical bag and made his way to Athos’ side, the older man having taken up residence a few feet away from the fire, ostensibly to save his night vision. Sitting down wearily beside his friend, d’Artagnan was unaware that another sigh escaped him. “How is he?” Athos asked, glancing at the Gascon for a moment before returning to the focus of his work.

 

The young man’s eyes drifted downwards to Athos’ hands and watched as they moved in a circular pattern, pushing a damp cloth over and across the blood and dirt that coated Aramis’ saddle. The act was a minor one, but it represented Athos’ complete faith in the marksman’s recovery; the realization brought a ghost of a smile to the Gascon’s lips. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Not much change, although I think the poultice is beginning to work. We’ll need to keep an eye on him through the night and make sure his fever doesn’t get any worse.”

 

Athos hummed in agreement, “And how are you doing?”

 

The question caught the young man by surprise and his head shot up to look at his mentor, but Athos’ focus was still on the stained and dirty saddle across his lap. “I’m fine,” the Gascon stammered. “It’s Aramis who’s hurt.”

 

Folding the cloth he held in half to reveal a cleaner side, Athos poured a small amount of water on it before returning to his task. “I find that dealing with an injured brother is often as difficult for the caregiver as it is on the one receiving care. Do you not agree?”

 

Athos’ perceptive words had cut straight to the heart of the matter and revealed what scared d’Artagnan most. His mind raced as he struggled to come up with a reply, the silence stretching between them. Finally, the young man swallowed thickly and said, “I don’t want to fail him…or any of you.”

 

The older man looked up at that and caught the Gascon’s gaze, his blue eyes fierce with determination as he stated with confidence, “You won’t. The fact that you worry so will ensure that you do everything in your power to help him heal.”

 

Once more the young man wondered how his friend could read him so well and, as much as he wanted to tear his eyes away from the older man’s piercing stare, he couldn’t do it. Several long seconds passed and d’Artagnan realized that Athos’ words were not meant to simply offer encouragement – they were a statement of his unwavering belief, and that knowledge imbued the young man with new confidence. The Gascon nodded, his concerns still present, but no longer overwhelming him into doubting his skills. He’d teased Aramis that he was a good student, but it was also the truth. d’Artagnan had recognized the importance of the critical skills he was learning and had put all of his effort into mastering what he was being taught, preparing for the day when one of his brother’s lives might depend on him. That day had arrived and the young man was determined that his first critical test would not be his last.

 

As if sensing the change in his protégé, Athos gave a return nod as he said, “Get yourself and Porthos something to eat. When you’re finished, get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours for the second watch.”

 

Still lacking an appetite, d’Artagnan forced himself to get food for himself and the larger man, remembering his earlier thoughts about keeping his friend’s strength up; obviously, it was time for them both to heed that advice. Settling down at Aramis’ side, the Gascon took his first bite as he watched Porthos do the same, both their eyes firmly pinned to the even rise and fall of the injured man’s chest as he slept.

* * *

“d’Artagnan!” The urgency of the tone that uttered the cry had Aramis struggling to open heavy lids. Before he’d managed to accomplish the task, he felt his pillow shifting and it took him several seconds to comprehend what was happening.

 

A voice spoke close to his ear, “Stay still, Aramis; I’ve got you.”

 

Who had him, the marksman wondered, doing his best to wade through the thick molasses that seemed to have taken up residence in his skull, making coherent thought next to impossible. “What?” he managed, finally partially opening his eyes to blink heavily against the shadows that surrounded him. He felt something around his chest tighten and looked down, surprised to find someone’s arm around him. Lifting his head, he repeated his earlier question, still trying to understand what was happening, “What?”

 

“No need to worry; just stay calm,” the voice said. This time, Aramis was able to recognize the deep timbre as belonging to Porthos and a look upwards revealed the man’s worried face, eyes darting unceasingly at their surroundings. His observation of Porthos was interrupted by a sound on his other side and he turned his head to see a bundle break away from the ground and coalesce into a man. d’Artagnan, he thought muzzily, cursing his weakened state and the draught he’d consumed for his inability to think clearly. As he watched, the Gascon moved swiftly away, the man’s sword flashing momentarily as it caught the light of the campfire that still burned.

 

“What?” he asked for a third time, frustrated that he’d been unable to get a response to his question and that he’d been unable to express himself more clearly.

 

“Hush now, Aramis,” Porthos answered lowly and Aramis’ head swivelled again as he struggled to identify the source of everyone’s attention. Then it reached him, the low growl that had woken him the previous night, the sound a precursor to attack, and he swallowed with difficulty against the fear that suddenly gripped him. As though sensing his anxiety, Porthos’ arm squeezed against him briefly, reminding him that he was under the larger man’s protection and his friend wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

 

Trying to relax as the tension in his muscles amped up the throb in his leg, Aramis swept his gaze around the encampment, trying in vain to see the approaching threat. He could make out d’Artagnan’s form several feet in front of him, pistol raised and ready to fire. A few feet to the Gascon’s left, Athos had adopted a similar pose as he prepared to defend against the impending attack. Behind him, he could feel Porthos stiffen and looked upwards once more before trying to turn to look behind him, matching the direction of the larger man’s gaze. As he began to shift, Porthos’ arm tightened to keep him still and Aramis huffed as he realized the helplessness of his situation; he would have no ability to defend himself and would need to rely on the skill and fortitude of his brothers. Drawing a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and shuddered as he prayed for his waking nightmare to end.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time he’d finished, Porthos had passed out and Aramis’ eyes were barely open, the marksman refusing to give in to his body’s need for sleep until he was certain that his friend’s injury had been properly treated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful comments on the last chapter - I can't tell you how much I enjoy hearing everyone's reactions. To make up for yesterday's cliffhanger, today's chapter is the longest one yet. Enjoy!

“d’Artagnan!” The cry of his name had him startling from sleep, rising to a seated position before coherent thought had even asserted itself. Opening his eyes, he scanned the area around them and noted Athos’ defensive position several feet away. With a smooth move that belied his weariness, he rose to his feet, his pistol gripped in his right hand while his sword filled his left. Throwing a quick look to Porthos, he nodded quickly at the larger man’s state of awareness, his eyes already scanning their surroundings for threats.

 

The sound of growling had d’Artagnan’s head snapping to one side, peering through the darkness that couldn’t be penetrated by the light of their fire. He couldn’t see anything yet, but recognized the snarling from the few occasions when wolves had harassed their stock on the farm. Flexing his fingers around the handle of his pistol, he threw a quick look over his shoulder, satisfied that Porthos would do whatever was necessary to protect their injured friend. Aramis, for his part, wore an expression of abject terror, no doubt recalling his last encounter with one of the beasts, and d’Artagnan felt a new resolve take hold as he promised himself that the marksman would not suffer again.

 

Fixing his eyes forward, he alternated between scanning the area between himself and Athos, and the space between himself and Porthos, determined that none of the bloodthirsty animals would pass. The low growling was repeated and this time d’Artagnan was uncertain which direction to look in first, the sounds seeming to come from several directions at once and his heart sank with the knowledge that they were up against more than one animal. A look at Athos confirmed that the older man realized the same and the Gascon licked suddenly dry lips as his heart thrummed wildly in anticipation.

 

He sensed Athos’ increased focus and his head swivelled once more, this time laying eyes on a set of deep, shining orbs that appeared to be drawing closer. For a moment he felt relief, convincing himself that he’d been wrong about the number of beasts stalking them; he was proven wrong just moments later. The first shot to ring out came from his left, Athos’ aim unerringly striking one of the beasts in the skull. d’Artagnan’s hand wavered sideways, searching for a target, which presented itself seconds later. Instinctively, he squeezed the trigger and hit the animal’s chest, close enough to its heart to bring the quickly lumbering wolf to a staggering halt before it tipped to its side.

 

There was no time to reload and d’Artagnan knew intuitively that Porthos would save his shot until his and Aramis’ position was threatened, trusting that he and Athos would keep the savage animals at bay. Athos grunted with exertion as he defended himself from a charging wolf with his blade and the Gascon raised his sword arm to do the same, a dark shadow coming at him from one side. Fighting the wild beasts was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, the normal rules that came with facing an armed opponent having no place in the struggle they now engaged in. In the wilderness, it was man against beast, with the former doing everything in their power to stay alive while the latter worked with speed and cunning to remove the obstacles between them and the weakest prey.

 

The intensity of their battle left no time for conscious thought, a primal instinct to survive guiding each of d’Artagnan’s movements as he brandished his blade, double-handed, using the fine weapon to hack and slash at the animals that approached. With a savage thrust that had the Gascon following the wolf he’d impaled to the ground, d’Artagnan blinked to try and clear the sweat from his eyes as his chest heaved and he searched for his next opponent.

 

Behind him, Porthos’ shot alerted him to the next source of danger and he struggled to gain his feet, pulling at the sword that was embedded deeply in the body of the dying animal, the muscle and skin surrounding it holding it stubbornly in place. A cry of pain at his back had new strength surging through his limbs and he stumbled backwards as the blade suddenly pulled free, dark blood dripping down its length to stain the ground. He turned quickly and was moving toward the larger man before he knew it, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of Porthos fighting with a large wolf, his ability to defend himself compromised by the fact that he still held Aramis close to his chest.

 

Another howl escaped Porthos’ lips and the sound galvanized the Gascon, realizing now that the beast was latched onto the larger man’s arm. d’Artagnan threw himself at the beast, landing on its back and pushing it off his friend, the two rolling once before they stopped, ending with the wolf perched on top of his latest attacker. With one hand pushing against the wolf’s lower jaw, d’Artagnan kept the animal’s teeth from finding their mark. At the same time, his left hand reached behind him, pulling his dagger from its sheath. With a growl of his own, the Gascon drove the dagger deeply into the beast’s side, repeatedly withdrawing it and then plunging it back into the heaving body above him until it was clear that he’d managed to kill it. Rolling sideways to get himself out from underneath the wolf’s carcass, he laid his head back on the ground, drawing shaky breaths as his heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest.

 

He allowed himself less than a minute before the need to check on his friends had him moving again, pushing up on one arm before rising shakily to his feet. The bloodied dagger hung loosely in his hand as he registered the killing ground around them, littered with the bodies of six wolves in varying stages of dying. Stumbling forward, he moved to Athos’ last known position and found the man kneeling on the ground, huddled over one arm as he struggled to regulate his breathing. Falling to his knees beside his mentor, d’Artagnan reached a tentative hand forward, resting it gently on the older man’s back, “Athos, are you alright?”

 

The older Musketeer lifted his head, revealing a sweaty face that was waxen with pain, his left arm tightly gripping his right. Following the limb upwards, d’Artagnan found the source of the man’s discomfort, the right shoulder bleeding heavily and staining Athos’ shirt crimson. “Athos,” the Gascon exhaled in shock, preparing himself to tend to his friend’s injury.

 

“No,” Athos pushed out, his voice tight with the throb of his wound. “See to Aramis and Porthos first.”

 

With a flush of shame, d’Artagnan realized that he hadn’t yet returned to check on the two most vulnerable of their party and he gave a shaky nod as he stood and moved to do as Athos had directed. He found the two where he’d left them, with Porthos seated on the ground and leaning against the tree at his back, while Aramis was snugged close to his chest and still held by the larger man’s arm. The Gascon released a sigh of relief at their uninjured appearance until he saw Porthos’ breath hitch. Narrowing his eyes as he got closer, d’Artagnan spotted the large man’s right arm which hung limply at his side, disappearing from sight into the shadows beside him.

 

Speeding his steps, he crouched beside Aramis first, knowing that Porthos would never accept his care until he confirmed the marksman’s health first. The injured man opened his eyes at the young man’s approach and the Gascon placed a hand lightly on his friend’s chest as he asked, “Are you alright?”

 

With effort, the marksman’s lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile, “Fine. It’s Porthos that got hurt in my place.”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him,” d’Artagnan promised, his gaze drifting to the larger man’s face and taking in the lines of pain around his eyes.

 

“Athos?” The marksman’s question drew the young man’s attention back and he nodded.

 

“Hurt his shoulder, but nothing I can’t fix with a few stitches,” d’Artagnan assured. Aramis’ eyelids were beginning to droop and the young man knew it would be best for the injured man if he could go back to sleep. “Rest,” he told the marksman. “I’ll wake you if I need your help.” Aramis’ lips turned upwards briefly before he let his eyes close, relaxing back against Porthos’ comforting warmth.

 

Moving closer to the larger man, d’Artagnan raised a questioning eyebrow as he motioned toward Porthos’ arm. “What happened?” he asked, waiting for permission to examine the still hidden limb.

 

With a grimace, Porthos lifted his arm upwards and into the light as he replied, “Wolf caught me.” He broke off for a moment as a sharp spike of pain tore through his limb, before adding breathlessly, “Think it’s broken.”

 

d’Artagnan bit his lip at the man’s proclamation; he still had no experience treating broken bones and hoped that Athos would be able to help him as he had with Aramis. Giving a nod, he plastered what he hoped was a look of reassurance on his face, “Not to worry; Athos and I will have you fixed up in no time.”

 

He saw the expression of doubt that passed across Porthos’ face as the man turned in Athos’ direction, unable to make out the older man in the poor light. Seeing the look of concern, the Gascon asked, “Will you be alright for a few minutes? Athos was bleeding rather heavily when I left him.” A quick dip of the head from the larger man had d’Artagnan up again, this time gathering his medical supplies before stepping to his mentor’s side.

 

“Athos,” he said, gauging the man’s awareness and pleased to see two clear, if pain-filled eyes, looking at him.

 

“Porthos and Aramis?” the older man queried, unwilling to submit to having his wound treated until he knew that the others were alright.

 

“Aramis is fine,” the young man answered before changing his answer. “No worse, at least. Porthos was bitten and he thinks the wolf broke his arm. I told him the two of us would take care of it.”

 

The hopefulness in the Gascon’s tone was difficult to miss and Athos’ stomach fell as he prepared to share his news. “d’Artagnan, I can’t” he said, breaking off for a moment and hating himself for not being able to help the boy. “I can’t move my hand. My whole arm is numb.”

 

The expression on the young man’s face shifted from shock to acceptance and finally to determination. “It’s fine, Athos. I’ll take care of it.”

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos interjected, feeling the need to apologize. “I’m sorry. I can direct you but you’ll need to manipulate the bones back into position.”

 

The Gascon nodded in agreement as he replied, “That’s fine, Athos; that’ll work. First, let’s get you taken care of. Porthos was concerned at the amount of blood you’re leaking.”

 

The older man looked down at his bloody shoulder, grimacing as though offended by his traitorous appendage. “Can you walk?” d’Artagnan asked, hoping to move his mentor closer to the others. Athos tipped his head and the Gascon rose partway, pulling his friend up by his uninjured arm, the older man biting down against a groan of pain.

 

With the young man’s help, Athos was soon seated a couple feet away from Porthos and Aramis, leaning against another tree. As Porthos watched d’Artagnan lower the older man to the ground, his brow furrowed with worry but he bit down on the questions that bubbled up, knowing that the young man would need to be able to focus on his newest patient. Diligently, d’Artagnan cleaned the bite that adorned Athos’ shoulder, wincing at the shredded skin that suggested the wolf’s teeth were still partially embedded when the animal was ripped away. Determined to stop any potential infection in its tracks, the Gascon used half of the spirits he’d secured from Aramis’ medical bag to thoroughly douse the wounds, relaxing marginally when the agony drove Athos into unconsciousness. “About time,” he muttered softly, under his breath, surprised when Porthos responded.

 

“He’s always been too stubborn for ‘is own good,” the large man commented, “kind of like someone else we know.”

 

Allowing a small grin to grace his lips, d’Artagnan remained focused on what he was doing as he replied, “It’s never a good idea to antagonize the man who’s going to be fixing your arm, Porthos.” The soft chuckle from the larger man made the Gascon smile more widely, pleased that he’d been able to distract his friend briefly from his pain. He finished tending Athos’ shoulder, sewing the damaged skin together as best as he could, praying that he’d done the right thing given how quickly he’d been able to care for the wounds. When the older man’s shoulder was bandaged and d’Artagnan had managed to reposition him on the ground, propped on one side with his back against the tree, he turned his attention to Porthos.

 

Hesitantly, he admitted what he’d been dreading all along, “Porthos, I’ve never set a broken bone.”

 

“I have,” a breathless voice interrupted. “There’s nothing to it.”

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan exclaimed, surprised to see his friend’s eyes open and pinned on him. “I thought you were asleep.”

 

Drawing a deeper breath, the marksman replied, “Was. Now I’m helping.” The Gascon opened his mouth to protest but Aramis beat him to it. “This is important and you need my help.” The finality of his tone put to rest any further arguments and d’Artagnan simply nodded. “Good. First thing, you need to check Porthos’ hand; make sure it’s warm and that he can move his fingers.”

 

The Gascon looked to the larger man, Porthos offering a nod in permission and hissing slightly as his arm was lifted. Under d’Artagnan’s careful scrutiny, he forced his fingers to move, biting back a moan of pain at the action. Turning back to Aramis, the young man confirmed, “He’s good on both counts.”

 

“You’ll need to find two sticks that you can use to keep the bone straight. Something that is long enough to sit under the palm of his hand and reach up to his elbow,” Aramis instructed, tensing momentarily as his own pain spiked.

 

"I'll find something," the Gascon confirmed. "Rest a moment while I'm gone."

 

Aramis didn’t reply but his lids slid closed, although it was clear from how he held himself that he was still awake. It took d’Artagnan longer than he would have liked to find two lengths of wood that would work, but minutes later he was back at Porthos’ side and ready to continue. The marksman’s eyes opened at his approach and he cast his eyes over the sticks the Gascon had found, nodding in approval. “You have bandages to bind the arm?” he questioned. The young man picked up a handful and held them in Aramis’ line of sight. “Good,” the injured man paused to swallow. “Are there any open wounds?”

 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan confirmed, eyes darting back to Porthos’ still bleeding arm.

 

“You’ll need to clean and stitch them first,” Aramis directed, clamping his jaw closed against a moan of pain, and he tensed for several seconds as he rode it out.

 

“Aramis?” the young man questioned worriedly, but the marksman shook his head.

 

“I’m fine. Take care of Porthos,” he replied breathlessly.

 

The Gascon did as he’d been told but the process of having his arm tended left Porthos gray and breathing heavily, each gentle action amplified by the agony of the broken limb. When he’d finished, d’Artagnan threw his friend a sympathetic look but Porthos sat with his eyes closed as he tried to overcome the pain. Turning to Aramis, the young man asked, “What’s next?”

 

“There are two bones in the lower arm. Feel along the length of the arm to determine what he’s broken,” Aramis instructed, the expression on his face telegraphing that he knew how much pain d’Artagnan was about to cause.

 

Taking a steadying breath, the Gascon looked at Porthos, his face apologetic but it was apparent that the large man shared the marksman’s knowledge. “It’s alright; just do it,” Porthos said, steeling himself against the agony he was about to endure.

 

The young man probed along the length of the larger man’s arm, cringing with Porthos’ sharp inhale when he reached the break, the area already bruised and swollen. Pushing aside his emotions, d’Artagnan forced himself to continue, releasing a sigh of relief when he located only the single fracture. “Just the one,” he stated to Aramis.

 

“Lucky,” the marksman murmured. “Have we any wine or brandy?”

 

“Ah,” the Gascon began, searching around him until he produced the nearly empty bottle of spirits he’d been using to disinfect everyone’s wounds.

 

Aramis nodded in approval, “Make him drink; all of it.”

 

d’Artagnan helped Porthos empty the bottle and gave the large man a minute to feel the alcohol’s effects. When he saw the larger man perceptibly relax, he dipped his head toward Aramis to let him know they were ready. From there, it was a relatively simple, although painful procedure to manipulate the two ends of the bones back into place, stabilizing the arm with the makeshift splint. By the time he’d finished, Porthos had passed out and Aramis’ eyes were barely open, the marksman refusing to give in to his body’s need for sleep until he was certain that his friend’s injury had been properly treated. As the Gascon rocked back on his heels, feeling shaky from the adrenaline of the fight and then caring for his friends’ wounds, he managed to steady his voice for the time needed to reassure the marksman. “They’re good, Aramis, you can rest now. I can take care of everything else.” Reluctantly, the injured man allowed his eyes to close, d’Artagnan looking around him wearily, once more feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily onto his shoulders.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piercing him with a serious look, Aramis explained, “d’Artagnan, when we fall, we must trust that our brothers will be there to catch us; but we have an obligation to them to be ready to do the same. That becomes impossible if our poor health prevents it.”

As the last of his brothers succumbed to sleep, d’Artagnan released a shaky exhale, clenching and unclenching his hands repeatedly as he fought the trembling of his limbs. Adrenaline was a wonder, the natural drug giving one the power to continue until a threat was overcome, but the aftereffects were nasty and he knew that he’d feel unsteady and weak until he had time to properly rest. The time for that was still far away though as he turned his attention to the state of their surroundings.

 

The ground around them was littered with the bodies of the animals they’d slayed and, if they didn’t want a repeat attack, the beasts would need to be dealt with. There was also the matter of their dying fire, the flames of which had been steadily decreasing as the wood that fed them was consumed. Most pressing, at least in the longer-term, were the horribly insufficient medical supplies that remained and which would need to sustain his patients for at least two more days given that their journey back would be completed at a much slower pace than they’d initially expected. Gathering up what was left of his clean bandages, d’Artagnan stuffed them back into his bag, unconsciously metering the linen out in his head and confirming that he’d have just enough to re-bandage each man’s wounds twice. As he shifted, his leg struck the empty bottle of spirits, reminding him that he had only a small portion of brandy remaining from what he’d packed, and Aramis’ supply had been used up that night.

 

Rummaging deeper into his bag, he pulled out several pouches that contained various medicinal herbs. He’d already amalgamated his supplies with Aramis’ and would likely have enough for one or two more poultices and a handful of teas, all of which would need to be saved for his ailing friends. Sighing deeply brought a flash of pain to his chest, and his right hand moved to the spot automatically to cover it, as if he could soothe the ache away with only a touch. Closing his eyes for a moment, he clenched his other fist in frustration because he could not – would not – use any of their dwindling supplies to tend his own wound.

 

When he’d recovered himself sufficiently, he pushed himself up off the ground, grabbing one of the larger pieces of wood from the fire to use as a torch as he went in search of more timbre. He stayed within ten feet of their camp, continually scanning the area around him and glancing back to ensure his friends were still safe. Bending over to pick up the wood made him lightheaded and he bit his lip against the sensation, forcing his vision to clear; carrying the load of branches and deadfall back pressed against his chest in a most uncomfortable fashion and he grunted softly as he fell to his knees next to the fire to deposit his load.

 

His hand landed once more against the sore spot on his chest and he felt the dampness of the cloth that rested there, looking down for a moment to realize that he was well and truly covered with blood. The realization shocked him for a moment until he remembered the last wolf he’d battled, the animal bleeding out as it straddled his chest. He pulled the tacky material away from his body disgustedly, promising himself that he would find a change of clothes as soon as he was able.

 

With the fire well stoked, he took a brief moment to check on their horses and then turned his attention to the bodies around him, gritting his teeth as he headed for the first one, the torch again held in one hand. He lost track of time as he laboriously dragged each of the carcasses away, leaving them next to the mound that marked the spot where they’d buried Aramis’ horse. The location wasn’t ideal but it was the most he could do on his own, having learned from earlier experience that carrying them wasn’t currently an option and he couldn’t bring himself to move any further away from his injured brothers.

 

By the time he’d finished, he was practically swaying on his feet with exhaustion, the second night of almost no sleep, coupled with the night’s events, taking its toll. As he stood at the edge of their camp, he could see the sky lightening, heralding the approaching dawn, and he could honestly say he’d never been happier at the thought of daylight. Knowing that the sun would likely rouse his friends, he collected his saddlebag and picked a spot close enough to the fire to provide him with sufficient light before sinking gratefully to the ground. For several moments he just sat there, savouring the feeling of being completely still. When he began to list to one side as sleep tried to overcome him, he forced his dry, gritty eyes open and pulled his clean shirt from his bag.

 

Pulling his dirty shirt off tugged at the raw spot on his chest and he bit his lip against the pain. He bundled the cloth into a ball and saturated it with water, using it to rub at the blood that had soaked through and covered his skin. He was gratified to find once he’d finished that the majority of the crimson hadn’t been his, but the deep scratch marks that adorned his upper, right chest were concerning and still seeped sluggishly. Steeling himself, he poured more water from his water skin onto the gouges, rubbing vigorously at them with the discarded shirt, doing his best to clean them. His ministrations caused the thin scabs that had formed to open again and he now had a decision to make – bind the open wounds with clean bandages or stitch them closed and risk further blood loss and infection.

 

Unwilling to take supplies away from his friends, d’Artagnan settled on a third option, leaving the wounds open but wrapping them with linen ripped from the cleanest sections of his ruined shirt. He pulled his clean shirt on, followed by his leather doublet, just as the sun was rising and he scrubbed a hand across his face as he prepared to begin what would no doubt be another long day, his friends reliant on him to get them home. 

* * *

d’Artagnan had been methodical in his preparations, boiling water and creating three pain draughts for his friends. He had little doubt that they would be travelling today regardless of their conditions and the medicine would be necessary for them to make any progress at all towards home. Next, he reloaded all of their pistols and cleaned everyone’s blades, replacing his into his belt, while Athos’ and Porthos’ weapons were added to their respective mounts once they’d been saddled. The fatigue he’d felt earlier had grown in its intensity and d’Artagnan knew he’d need to stay busy in order to remain awake, so when he’d done everything necessary for their departure, he turned with regret toward his friends.

 

He started by kneeling at Athos’ side, placing a hand on the man’s brow to gauge his temperature, pleased to find it normal. With a gentle shake, he called the older man’s name, pleasantly surprised for a second time when he awoke almost at once. Despite the previous night, Athos recollection of events was almost instantaneous and he began to push himself upwards, the Gascon having no choice but to help in order to keep him from hurting himself further. When Athos was seated with his back against the tree, d’Artagnan spoke, “How do you feel?”

 

Athos’ eyes were narrowed with pain and he cradled his injured arm, but the fingers of his right had moved indicating that sensation had returned. “I’m fine,” he replied, eyes already gazing at Aramis and Porthos. “How are they?” he questioned.

 

“I stitched the bites on Porthos’ arm and set the bone last night. Both he and Aramis slept through but I haven’t yet had a chance to check on them,” the Gascon advised. Standing up, he moved away for a moment, returning seconds later with the tea he’d prepared. “I’ve got everything ready to go but you’d better drink this first.” Athos scowled as he recognized the foul brew, but took it none-the-less and began to sip as d’Artagnan moved to check on his other charges.

 

He repeated his actions with both men, confirming that Porthos remained free of any troubling fevers and that Aramis had cooled during the night. After he’d given both of them pain draughts to drink, he examined everyone’s wounds and decided to leave them undisturbed until they found a place to rest later in the day. When everyone had finished and dealt with their most basic needs, he organized them onto their horses, having Porthos and Athos both ride on their own, while Aramis would join him. As he finished settling the marksman onto his mount, Porthos looked around them appreciatively as he commented, “Gets right bossy when he’s in charge of our care.”

 

With a slight crinkling of his eyes, Athos returned, “No more than Aramis himself when one of us has been injured.”

 

Aramis released a huff of indignation but his eyes were filled with mirth. The truth was that d’Artagnan had done an admirable job of tending their wounds and gone above and beyond shouldering all of the responsibilities around the camp. Leaning forward against the Gascon’s back, he whispered, “Don’t listen to them; they’re just jealous that I’ve taught you so well.”

 

“Good student, remember,” d’Artagnan teased back as he nudged his horse into a slow walk.

 

Their pace was slow and interspersed with frequent breaks, a fact that the Gascon was incredibly thankful for given how hard it was to stay awake and attentive to their surroundings while being lulled to sleep on the back of the horse. During their afternoon rest, Athos looked at him with impatience and ordered him to sleep, accurately guessing that the young man had stayed awake following the attack. d’Artagnan considered arguing but he could barely see straight and a vice had clamped itself around his skull at some point during the day, making his head pound in tempo with the scratches on his chest.

 

"Was he hurt?” Aramis asked once it was clear that the Gascon was asleep.

 

Athos’ head snapped toward the medic in surprise as he responded, “I didn’t think so. Why?”

 

The medic offered a one-sided shrug, “Perhaps he’s merely tired.”

 

Porthos had been listening to the two men and now interjected, “Aramis, don’t deflect. What did you see?”

 

Aramis’ lips quirked into a smile at how well his friend knew him. “It’s only little things so far. The occasional hitch in his breathing, the sheen of sweat on his face. All things that are easily explained.”

 

“But you don’t think so,” Athos concluded.

 

Another smile graced the marksman’s face as he replied, “This is d’Artagnan we’re talking about.”

 

Their group turned silent after that, each wondering if the Gascon was hiding something from them. When Athos roused the young man from his sleep an hour later, d’Artagnan fell swiftly into his role as medic, dosing them with more tea and tending their wounds before they resumed their journey. If the Gascon realized the men were carefully observing him for any signs of injury, he kept it to himself. That night they were fortunate to find rooms at an inn along the way, and all four were asleep shortly after consuming their evening meal, followed of course by another wound check by d’Artagnan before the young man virtually tucked all of them into bed; it was a testament to how poorly they all felt that none of them voiced a single complaint.

 

The next day was a repeat of the first, and each of them felt the tug of home as they drew nearer. The journey had been hard on all of them and it was a quiet, sore group of men that trailed through the garrison gates late that evening. Treville was out of his office and bounding down the stairs with the first cry that sounded from the men guarding the entrance, announcing the return of his four best. The Captain took one look at the weary bunch and summoned more men, Athos and Porthos slipping from their horses slowly while two others helped Aramis and began to move him toward the infirmary.

 

Treville squinted at the Gascon through the low light of dusk, the young man having made no move to dismount. “d’Artagnan, are you quite alright?”

 

d’Artagnan gave a small nod, his head remaining low to his chest before he tipped sideways out of the saddle, Treville just managing to break his fall and ending up with his arms full of insensate Gascon. 

* * *

Treville turned out to be the most surprised of the group, while Athos and Porthos sighed in frustration, and Aramis merely shook his head after learning of the Gascon’s less than graceful swoon from his horse. Similarly, the three had anticipated the wounds that were found on the young man’s chest, having no idea of the injury he possessed, but knowing that he’d hidden something from them which had caused his state of unconsciousness. The fact that angered them was that the claw marks were infected and hadn’t been properly cared for, d’Artagnan having ignored his own wellbeing for some reason that Porthos and Athos could not fathom; Aramis, however, smiled knowingly and promised himself that he would have a talk with the boy as soon as his fever broke.

 

That night found all of them staying in the infirmary, Aramis confined to a bed next to d’Artagnan’s, while Athos and Porthos traded off, taking turns sitting at the Gascon’s side and bathing his overly warm skin with cool cloths. The garrison physician had cleaned and bandaged the young man’s chest and then examined each of the others, pronouncing that they’d all been well cared for and were on their way to recovering, a statement that only infuriated the men further. Fortunately, d’Artagnan’s fever was short-lived and he was much improved by the middle of the next day, although he remained stubbornly asleep, a fact that Aramis didn’t find concerning whatsoever given the number of hours the young man had gone without sleep.

 

When d’Artagnan finally woke, he found himself in the dimly lit infirmary, the sun having set hours ago and the space around his bed illuminated by candles. Rolling his head to one side, he noted the small table next to his cot and stretched his hand out to grasp the cup that sat there, draining the contents quickly to chase away the dryness in his throat. When he’d replaced the cup, he moved his hand to probe at his chest, confirming the presence of bandages. He groaned as he realized the implication of his discovery.

 

“Awake, are you?” a voice from his other side asked, and the Gascon startled, turning over to see who had spoken.

 

“Aramis, what happened?” d’Artagnan asked. The marksman gave him a look of mock disbelief that had the young man rephrasing his question. “Alright, I know what happened,” he said, his hand again reaching for his wound, “but how did I end up here.”

 

With a grin that suggested the Gascon would be the brunt of much teasing in the foreseeable future, the medic replied, “I understand the Captain had you carried here after you fell from your horse and into his arms.” Aramis watched as d’Artagnan pushed himself up and swung his feet over the edge of the cot, turning so that he faced the marksman. “You know, we had thought it quite remarkable that you had managed to come out of that confrontation with the wolves unscathed.”

 

The Gascon gave a small snort as he replied, “Bloody lucky for all of us that I wasn’t more seriously hurt; otherwise who would have taken care of all of you.”

 

“Hmm,” the marksman hummed. “It would have made things more difficult, but not impossible. It’s not like I haven’t been wounded along with the others in the past.”

 

“You have?” d’Artagnan asked, his tone conveying his interest.

 

“Oh, yes. There was this one time with a group of highwaymen outside of Orleans. There were six of them, or maybe it was eight – no matter, there were a fair number and, although we were victorious, all of us paid a price for it.”

 

“What happened?” the Gascon pressed, curious to hear how the medic had dealt with things.

 

“I handled it as best I could,” Aramis explained. “Porthos had taken a shot to the thigh and was bleeding like a stuck pig so I dug the ball out and stitched it closed. Athos had taken a blade to one side and was bleeding only slightly less than Porthos, so he was my next priority. I used up nearly all my supplies cleaning and bandaging their wounds.”

 

“What about you,” d’Artagnan asked, recalling that the marksman had said that all three of them had been hurt.

 

“Ah, nasty cut across my back,” Aramis grimaced as he remembered how the sharp blade had cut through his leathers and skin with equal ease. “Left a six inch gash that required more stitches than I wish to recall.

 

"So what did you do?" the Gascon questioned.

 

“The only reasonable thing I could do,” the medic replied. “I sat stoically while Porthos and Athos tortured me as they cleaned my back and then stitched it closed.” With a look that was only half-joking, he shuddered as he said, “Don’t ever let Athos sew you up. His needlework is only marginally better than Porthos’.”

 

“Didn’t that use up the last of your supplies?” the young man asked.

 

“Yes,” Aramis responded with a sigh. “But there was nothing else we could have done.”

 

“Wouldn’t it have been better to save what you had to tend Athos’ and Porthos’ wounds?” d’Artagnan countered, still not understanding the lesson the medic was attempting to convey.

 

Piercing him with a serious look, Aramis explained, “d’Artagnan, when we fall, we must trust that our brothers will be there to catch us; but we have an obligation to them to be ready to do the same. That becomes impossible if our poor health prevents it.”

 

Realization dawned on the young man’s face, as he smiled shyly and replied, “So, you’re saying that I shouldn’t have hidden the fact that I was injured even though I would have used up the last of our supplies.”

 

“Exactly,” Aramis proclaimed with a wide grin. “Unless you fancy making it a habit to swoon at others’ feet.” The flushed look of embarrassment on the young man’s face was immensely satisfying and the medic closed his eyes, content to be back home and healing, and secure in the knowledge that he now had another brother who would be there pick him up the next time he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been following along with this story, and thanks to all those who commented or left kudos. This is the end of this "short" story and I'm excited to let you know that I'll be back with the first chapter of my long story, "Family", this Sunday. If you decide to give it a try, please also check out the companion fic by AZGirl, titled "Almost Family", which will be up shortly after mine.


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